Nationalism

Zach came by on his fixie and we walked to the store to buy me some cigarettes. I was wearing lazy-woman's jeans (saggy, holes in the butt) and the shopowner saw my tattoo, which is written in Arabic script.

He asked where I was from, because of my tattoo. I said, "Around here." So he asked where I got that word from.

I said, "It's from a book about a shepherd in Spain who sells his sheep because he has a dream that there is treasure in the Pyramids. Why, can you read it?"

"Yes. Maktab. Do you know what it means?"

"Maktub. Destiny or fate."

"No, it means 'office.'"

So, I asked him where he was from (I think my interpretation is only true among some Muslims, not the whole of the Arabic-speaking world). He said, "I'm from the oil." And I couldn't understand him, so I asked him to repeat himself. Then, I laughed and said, "I was looking for a country...?" He said, "I am Iraqi."

I said, "I hope you have a more positive view of your nationality when you aren't around Americans."

He confessed that he'd come here as a refugee ten years ago. He then said something very bitter which I couldn't understand. I said, "So, you don't support the war in Iraq?" in as droll a way as I could manage. He laughed bitterly and said no. I asked him if he was happy that Saddam Hussein was out of power. He said, "I'll tell you something. Saddam Hussein is still alive, and the men in my country are dying."

I wished him good care and left. I hope that ... we can fix what we've done.